


Origin

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 22:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellatrix gets the Dark Mark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Origin

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: An old entry for the [worshipdarklord fest.](http://worshipdarklord.livejournal.com/18315.html)
> 
> Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended. Please don't copy/archive/re-post/re-blog this work without the explicit permission from the author/artist.

Bellatrix doesn’t mind being out in the open. She enjoys the feeling of their eyes on her, watching her pale curves arch in the eerie glow of the green fire. The candles around the room are barely lit, and the grand fireplace is down to cinders. The others are in a circle all around them.

She’s in his lap.

He’s perched regally in his armchair in front of the fireplace, like a great king atop his throne. She’s sprawled grandly across him, like the queen she’s always longed to be. Her legs are crossed and her ankle sways back and forth idly, covered in her black stiletto. Her dress is just as black, just as slinky, and so thin that it shows every curve and muscle in her young body. There are no sleeves today, of course, not for this. Just a sweetheart neckline, for the innocent thing she never was. Her elegant, dark curls are swept over one shoulder, and she shows all her white teeth as she smiles.

He holds the knife against her skin, the metal alight with the iridescent spell. It wafts and fumes between them: smoke to the fire in the blade—when it touches her skin, her voice breaks. She doesn’t scream like they did, just parts her lips. It’s _boiling_ , and it cuts through her flesh as if it were _paper._

Bellatrix melts with the pleasure, her whole body trembling in anticipation. Her eyes are wide and bright, and when he looks up at her, haunted eyes half-lidded, her heart nearly stops.

He hisses, “ _Be still._ ” And it almost sounds like Parseltongue—it almost makes her wet. Someday she’ll learn that, just for him.

She purrs, too quietly for the others to hear, “ _Yes, master._ ” Because he’s their lord, but he’s so much more to her. The rest knelt before him for their mark. Bellatrix strut proudly into his lap. She draped herself across it like she was meant to be here, her side and her thighs curled along his stomach. She holds out her forearm for him to slice into, and she dares to lean her head on his shoulder.

It goes deeper, of course. It cuts into her and it curves, twisting and bloody, and the familiar shudder of pain slithers up her arm, but she doesn’t let it get any farther. She won’t let them see her tremble. She only lets him see her smile, her grin of delight, her flushed cheeks and her lowered lashes. She arches too close into him and she presses her breasts out for him, trying to tempt him whenever she can. He continues to slice into her like he sees nothing else, now working down the bottom half of a skull.

She wants to pet his smooth hair and caress his pallid cheek, but she knows better. She settles for leaning into his ear, crooning, “Thank you for this honour, master.”

A slight smirk twinges on his lips—her chest tightens. It’s so very hard to make him _smile_ , and she savours every one. “...You’re the first to thank me, Bellatrix.”

His voice is casual, but heavy like it always is. Their lord never says anything without meaning. She watched him mark them all without a word, and they all cowered down before him, wide eyed and flinching. She flourishes under his hands. Her blood is a sticky mess that trickles down her skin, peppering his robes. She wonders vaguely if he’ll let her clean it up later, get down on her knees and lick it away. Or perhaps peel them off, dress him in something new... She can feel his lap beneath her, and she wants to squirm in it like a child.

Instead, she purrs, “I’ve been looking forward to this day for a long time. For you to mark me as yours.... You know I’m all yours, and I always have been, and I always will be— _every_ part of me.” Her voice is still too low for the others, but she isn’t thinking of them. Only him, and the unwavering way he concentrates, while she whispers her heart into his ear. “...My soul, my very being, my body...” _Especially_ her body. What she wouldn’t give for him to claim her properly, use her fully, press her down into the mattress of his old room...

She sees the man beneath the monster, and every hard angle in his face makes her long to see it slick with sweat, hovering over her in the flickering candlelight. She wants to brush his dark hair back, to run her hands along his defined chest, to straddle his lap and ride him like the beast he is. She bites her lip not to moan as she thinks of it—he’s started carving the snake, and the lines of the skulls’ head are beginning to harden, crusting black and purple. He doesn’t answer her again; he doesn’t have to. He knows how much he owns her, and this is only proof.

This is the greatest gift Bellatrix has ever received. She watches it form with a rapt fascination, imprinting every second to memory. At one point, he has to stop and wipe the blood away, smearing it around her skin, not bothering to vanish it. It’s a horrible, deep wound, and she’s almost beginning to feel faint from the blood loss, but that only adds to her light-headed giddiness. When he goes back to carving, her panties have soaked through. She can’t _help it_. Being this close, touching this much—it’s her greatest wish. His fingers are as masterful as ever; his picture’s a work of art.

There’s a sadness in her body as it ends; she wanted this to go on forever. But there’s also a pride with the way it ends up: it’s beautiful. Bellatrix curves her arm around, staring at it. He doesn’t push her off. He turns to look at her face, and Bellatrix breathes, “It’s _gorgeous._ ”

There’s a smirk on his lips. Bellatrix draws her arm slowly to her lips, and she kisses the skull’s mouth softly. The coppery taste clings to her mouth, and her eyelids flutter closed, ecstasy washing over her. It’s the closest she can get to kissing him, for now.

She’s just about to slide off his lap, mournful again, when he grabs the back of her head, making her gasp. He jerks it back by her hair, and he leans in to hiss in her ear, “I will wish to examine it later.” Then he lets her go, shoving her off of him—she stumbles forward towards the fire.

It’s as good as an invitation into his bed. She straightens with a feral ecstasy in her eyes, and she saunters into her place in the circle—her husband steps forward for his turn.


End file.
